Today I stood in the mirror in a black and green, high necked, knee length dress that was cinched at the waist with a black and white striped belt. Platform mary jane black suede shoes were buckled on my feet. Purple eye shadow covered my eye lids and black mascara was applied heavily to my lashes. Pink blush highlighted my round cheek bones and a mulberry rouge extenuated my full lips. I went without a necklace due to the high neckline of the dress and chose simple square emerald gems for my ears. Due to my overgrown locks, I pulled my hair up and away from my face so I would not fight with it falling in my face all day.
I stood in the mirror. I struck a pose. You could see my knobby-ish knees, and my long legs that were made to look even longer due to the four-inch heels that I chose to wear. The darker colors of the dress caused the paleness of my legs to stand out, like the contrast between white and black paper. I grabbed my phone, faked a “hopefully she won’t be able to tell that this is a fake smile” smile and snapped a picture. My hand was on my hip, my head slightly cocked, a smile on my face, and a few teeth showing, she’ll never know, right? Who am I kidding, she’ll know it’s a forced smile, she always knows?
I send the picture and add a caption, “Does this say, take me seriously when I say that I am losing my mind?”
Within seconds she replies, as she always does, with OMGOSH – Love it STUNNING! You are FLAWSOME (an individual who embraces their flaws and knows that they are awesome regardless)!
Despite my Andy from the Devil Wears Prada Outfit, I feel like shit today. I feel like I should be braless, with tangled hair, unshaven armpits, a holy shirt and oversized sweatpants, walking through the house in the way where you don’t actually pick up your feet. That is, if I actually got out of bed, and if I ever came out of the sleep coma that I wish I could stay in for the day, or a week.
The anxiety is intense, and I hit my breaking point last night and like a volcano I erupted. I spewed and spitted and cried and snotted. It was ugly. There was mascara all over my face and on my hands and on tissues and probably in my hair. My eyes were swollen, and my nose was red.
I am tired. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. Today I was thinking how I just want to be better. But then I was like, what the hell is better? If I was asked to describe it, would I be able to? Right now, I would say make the anxiety go away. Make it so I can touch a pen at a restaurant to sign a check without thinking about germs, let me go into a public restroom without having an anxiety attack, you know, trivial things.
So today, I saw one doctor in the morning to get blood work done to check my hormone levels. Weird, right? Hormone levels, but you are bipolar? Things get complicated round here, and the past has shown me when I have this severe of a spike in anxiety that estrogen, that nasty varmint, is usually to blame. So in 2-3 days, I will know my levels, and we can move forward with a more targeted treatment plan. This afternoon I see the psychiatrist and I hope that we can come up with a treatment plan modification because life’s not so grand right now and I need some help.
With the holiday this week, I am BEYOND thankful that there are doctors that are working this week. It brings me such relief that I am able to receive care, especially in my time of need, during a holiday week, and I am forever grateful for my treatment team.
I keep reminding myself that this, whatever this is, it is temporary. That this, this too shall pass. That I will get past this, that I will get relief, that in no time at all, I will be past this boulder, this hill, this mountain, and I will be in greener pastures. I also am reminded that hard times makes us stronger. And I will press on (3:14)